I'm sorry to announce that all the porn has been made. We've simply run out of ideas. Butt sex, ear to dick contact, shit eating, animal crushing, furries, entangled wang, and hobo murder porn have filled the range of niche erotica, and in these tough economic times, there is simply no profit in continued production of pornography. We'd like to thank you for your patronage over the years and hope that you continue to enjoy the porn we have already made. If your porn is still under warranty or is covered by an extended masturbation plan, we will continue to provide technical support and lubrication services until your porn's service period ends. If your pornography cannot be repaired, unfortunately we will no longer be able to replace it with the same or a similar product. In such a case, you will receive a coupon for 50 cents off an 18 oz box of Cheerios and an unsatisfying dry tug.

Once again, thank you so much for enjoying our products over the last 169 years. It has truly been a joy and a privilege to serve your needs.

Adverbly,

Jeremy Q. Afterglide
President of Porn

Several friends and coworkers are absolutely apeshit over the recently released Spore, a game in which you create your own complex creatures that evolve into an advanced society as gameplay progresses. Some of this buzz came as a result of the free Spore Creature Creator tool that was available in advance of the game itself. Thousands, if not millions of perverts used this program to create creatures that were just big penises, boob monsters, and other adult-themed beings that came to be known as "Sporn." I downloaded the Creature Creator the other day and tried my own hand at some Sporn. This happy fellow is called the Selfock. He has a very special talent. Can you guess what it is?

Look here, motherfucker. I don't expect you did a lot of shopping around before you answered our "massage" ad, so don't come in here all pissed our girls ain't tight like an Isotoner. Where else are you going to get services like the Greek Toaster, Snake Bite Blowjob, and the Ice Cold Karl for the price of a dumpster juice tug and run? Nowhere! You just got your mallow marshed for $14.99, and you're demanding your money back? Get the fuck out of my 500 square foot fake Bloomingdale's prostitution front in a strip mall and never come back. And I'm spreading the word to every provider in town. Next time you want your mayo scraped, you can save yourself the effort and go behind the rib shack for a self-service dry rub with a potato peeling glove.

Even in my sleep-deprived state this morning, I found myself doing some mental math on the drive to work (I tend to try to do most simple math, like calculating the tip at a restaurant, in my head to keep my brain from withering). The question that popped into my head was, "How many ounces of jizz I've shot out since I bought my house?" Why pick the move-in date of my house? Who knows, though I have been thinking about the house a lot lately given my remodeling stint.

So let's say that spread out over the entire 8 years (well, technically 7 years, 11 months, but let's just tack on that extra month), including masturbation and the full spectrum of sexual activities with a partner, that I shot a load a couple times a day on average. This would include dry spells of a few days where I didn't have time to raise my flag, periods where I've been in a relationship and was sexually active but didn't wack it all that much, and also those years of long, boring weekends single and alone, painting the ceilings with thick eggshell (and don't forget the glossy enamel finish).

8 years x 365 days/year = 2,920 days

2,920 days x 2 angry yanks/day = 5,840 angry yanks

[admittedly this is where my estimation gets hazy, as I have never measured the volume of my espoogens, but lets say 1.2 tablespoons on average, or 0.6 fluid ounces]

5,820 angry yanks x 0.6 fluid ounces/angry yank = 3,492 fluid ounces

Let's break 3,492 fluid ounces (US fluid ounces, mind you) down into a few different measurements. And no, these I didn't do in my head. I would have had to drive all the way down to Iowa to have enough time to calculate these conversions in my head.

In England, you could have bellied up to the bar and ordered 181.7 steaming Imperial pints of my wazz.

In the United States, that's 218.3 of our weak-ass little tiny pints. Bitches be cheated!

You could have filled up your gas tank with 27.3 gallons of my thick and creamy swimmer salad. If I charged you $4 a gallon, I could have made $109! And your car would run like a rocket from Hell. Ladies, if it ever gets too expensive for you, stop by and I'll top off your face and rack for free.

And on the subject of fuel, I could have filled 0.65 petroleum barrels with sack sauce. Oh, and I tried so hard to fill it to the brim, too. [frowns for all]

According to the Bible, that would be 4.55 baths, 27.3 hins, and 327.4 logs (tee hee!)

You could have walked down to the local farmers' market and haggled for 2.9 bushel baskets full of freshly squeezed Minnesota Jeremy juice.

0.4 hogsheads. I probably couldn't fill it all the way because staring at that severed piggy head while I spanked away probably wilted my stiffy.

11.7 pecks of pecker juice!

Dear Jeremy,

I have a hairy asshole. As a woman, is this wrong? Do men prefer a hairless, baby soft asshole on a gal, or do they not care? I'm also curious about what lesbians think about hairy butt holes. Do they mind if their partner looks like a Yeti in the pooper?

Sincerely,

Curious, and Hairy in South Minneapolis

Dear Assquatch, how hairy are we talking here? Peach fuzz? Secret garden? Radiated tarantula? Personally I prefer a hairless ass. A large percentage of Americans have hangups about hair. Here we like smooth lines, lickable armpits, and bald landing strips. In Europe, you're not as likely to encounter hangups about your rectal spider monkey, but as American tastes drift eastward, you might encounter more beret-wearing Nair lovers clucking their tongues nowhere near your hirsute butthole. In other words, you better get over to France to get your pooper pounded by an unshowered Frenchman before he discovers Old Spice shower gel and beav shaving porn on ScrewTube.

As for lesbians, they like and dislike the hairy tickle hole at similar ratios to everyone else. If I were a woman, lesbian or not, I'd keep my shitter waxed like a surfboard.

But you're looking to strip some hair out of your bread pan, ask for Jen at the Beauty Room in Minneapolis. She is an expert waxer. If you pay her extra, she'll use the ass hair she strips off to build you a handlebar mustache for your vag.

A little heads up that my posting schedule may be on the erratic side this week as I work to finish up a project due next week at work and try to finish up painting my kitchen cabinets. Today, I will simply encourage you fellow men out there to continue to make regular financial investments in your penis. Your penis may be weak today, but pump in that funding, and it will grow over time. I recommend penis cost averaging to hedge against pussy market downturns.

Dear JoTF,
I just ate refried beans spread upon Triscuits with EZ Cheese on top for lunch. I was wondering what awesome effects this will have on my libido in a few hours? Are there any foods that you know about or have experienced that make for a perfect storm of whoopee?

Love Infested Intestine

Dear Intestine, first I would suggest incorporating more fresh fruit and vegetables into your diet. Not only for your libido, but so you can actually take a dump every once in a while instead of hovering over the bowl straining to push out a paltry teaspoon of blood-caked cracker crumbs and sawdust. But having a system flush with water and healthy vitamins can also help keep that soldier saluting and increase your stamina in the sack. Now you might still pop off after thirty seconds of steady pumping, but you can do that maybe five or six times in an evening instead of just one or two. In her eyes, you'll be two-thirds of a man instead of just half of one.

As for your Triscuits, refried beans, and EZ Cheese, the answer is, "NO! STOP! BAD!" followed by a smack across the back of the hand with a celery stalk. Even if it did help you launch your rocket, you're going to leave a reddish brown skid mark on her sheets, and she'll never invite you back for another roll in the hay. But maybe that's just how you roll, player.

Forward: To the best of my knowledge, this is my first crack at posting a short story here -- at least one of this length. Don't let the admittedly saggy middle part of the story get you down. My favorite part is the end. But don't skip ahead and spoil it, or I'll chuck a tin of nutmeg at your 'roo pouch.

-Jeremy

Ricky felt like he was going to vomit. This was the night. He had to do it, or surely he would never work up the nerve again. He knew Joanna was the one, but he was shaking uncontrollably. What if she said no? What if she laughed at him, told him she never really loved him, and walked out the door and out of his life forever? He knew he was ready, but was she? Was he pushing things too fast? No, of course not. He couldn't believe how silly he was being. It was clear that Joanna was just as in love with him. He steadied himself against the bathroom counter, looked at himself in the foggy mirror, and took a deep breath. His confidence was restored, and not a moment too soon. Joanna would be walking in the front door any minute now.

Joanna impatiently checked the clock on her phone as she filled her car with gas. She hissed under her breath, "Damn it. Come on, come on, COME ON!" Her fuel light came on just as she pulled away from the parking ramp at work. "Just insult added to the injury," she thought. Her boss had stopped by her desk right as she was gathering up her things to head home for the day. Why does he insist on waiting until 5 to give her project changes? Today he was in rare form. Forty minutes of ramblings littered with his kid's soccer team rankings, pontifications on the best brisket in Kansas City, and complaints about how Chinese food gives him gas. Why today of all days? Today was her second anniversary with Ricky, and she couldn't wait to see what kind of evening he had cooked up. He may not be Mister Romance, but he always knew how to make things interesting.

Ricky was now officially sweating buckets. It had to be 85 degrees in the kitchen. He had been cooking literally all day. In order to get everything ready, he had taken the day off from work, completely unbeknownst to Joanna. She probably assumed that he had made reservations at some fancy steak house downtown. Or maybe that he'd take her to the little Italian place where they first met like he did last year. He smiled at the thought of how surprised she'd be. "This is going to knock her socks off," he thought.

Joanna raced down the alley, repeatedly tapping at the button on the garage door opener. As soon as she was within range, the huge door rumbled upward with the screeching sound of metal dragging on metal. She pulled in, hit the button again, and sprinted out the side door, through the back yard, and up the steps. A goofy smile crept across her face when she unlocked the door and turned the knob. She sang through the hallway, "Hellll-oh-ohhhhhhhhh!" No answer. "Ricky? Are you home, sweety?"

A faint but familiar voiced called out from upstairs, "I'm up here, Jo! In the bedroom!"

"Oh, wow," Joanna squealed quietly. She laughed and shouted back, "You're just cutting straight to the chase tonight, aren't you! Aren't we going to eat first? It smells amazing in here!"

Ricky wasn't going to give away the surprise. "Just come up and see for yourself!"

It was then that Joanna noticed something all over the hallway carpet. "What the hell?" Running the entire length of the hall was a trail of yellow powder. "Honey, what is this mess all over the floor down here?"

Ricky was clearly getting impatient. "Don't worry about that right now, just come up here!"

She realized he probably had something very special planned and now wasn't the time to fret over a little mess that could be vacuumed up later. But as she entered the dining room, she spied a pair of what appeared to be crumpled foil packets on the table and a yellow, greasy smudge on the wall. "OK, just ignore it for now," she reassured herself. "I can clean this up later." But halfway through the room, the mysterious trail of yellow powder resumed and wound its way into the living room. She followed it to the front hall, up the first flight of stairs, across the landing, and up the second flight. The smell of food kept getting stronger. It was a familiar smell, but she couldn't quite place it. The trail of powder stopped in a large mound just inside the partially cracked bedroom door. She pushed it open and rushed inside.

"Ok, seriously, Ricky, what is with this powd--" She couldn't finish her sentence. Once her eyes adjusted to the light given off by the hundreds of flickering candles, she saw a glistening, bubbling, steaming yellowish sea coating the floor, the dresser, and the night stand. Little wriggling elbow shapes, spirals, and wagon wheels swam in the glistening mess. And there in the middle of the room, on the bed, surrounded by four walls of Plexiglas, was Ricky up to his neck in Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. And he quite clearly was naked under all of that Mac and Cheese, as Joanna could clearly see his erect manhood peeking out from what appeared to be a small pile of Spongebob Squarepants-shaped noodles.

"Care to join me?" purred Ricky.

Joanna screamed, "Jesus Christ, Ricky! What did you do to our bedroom? My God, that's a $200 duvet cover! No, no, no... and the carpet! And... and... YOU FILLED THE CLOSET, TOO? My shoes! What is all this? What were you thinking, Ricky?"

Ricky was clearly crestfallen. His erection subsided and sank slowly into the now-congealing yellow mass. "I did all of this for you, baby! I just wanted to do something special, something spectacular when I asked y--" He cut himself short, realizing the right moment wasn't coming anytime soon.

Joanna softened slightly. "Asked me what, Ricky?"

Ricky sighed heavily and shifted his weight in a futile attempt to rid himself of a stray cluster of spiral noodles that had migrated into his crack. "Asked you to marry me."

He produced a ring caked in viscous cheese.

"Oh, Ricky! Yes. YES! Of course I'll marry you!!" She dove over the Plexiglas wall and landed on top of Ricky with a squishy splat.

Tears welled in Ricky's eyes. "You've made me so happy Joanna." He pulled a cord hanging above the bed, and a tidal wave of ketchup and cut up hot dog bits spilled out of a gigantic plastic tub and covered the both of them. They made love and fell asleep in each others arms.

--

Three weeks had gone by since Ricky's unforgettable proposal, and Joanna was still walking on clouds. After she had cleared up the yeast infection brought on by wallowing around and falling asleep in gallons of imitation cheese and nitrate-filled hot dog bits, she and Ricky set about to pick a date for the wedding. Amidst the flurry of phone calls to friends and family, fantasizing about the perfect wedding gown, and struggling to keep her mind focused at work, she almost didn't notice when she missed her period.

A visit to the doctor had confirmed what she already knew. "I'm going to be a big, fat cow at my wedding!" She sobbed into the collar on Ricky's lavender polo shirt.

"No, no, baby. You'll be beautiful. More beautiful even."

That was of little comfort to Joanna. "I am NOT getting married when I'm 8 months pregnant!"

"Well... uh... we can move the date up."

Joanna was still hysterical. "NO! There isn't enough time to plan as it is. We have to book a church, pick the invitations, the food--"

Ricky saw this quickly spiraling out of control and interrupted, "Of course, of course. Well how about we move the date back? Like 6 months after the baby comes."

She brightened a bit and sniffled, "Well, I guess we could. Yeah... Yeah, we totally could do that!"

"Then it's settled. See? It's nothing to worry about. We wanted a baby. The timing is just a little off is all. Everything will work out fine."

Weeks passed, and Joanna was concerned that she hadn't gained any weight. No morning sickness, no weird cravings, nothing. Maybe that all came later. She was new to the whole being pregnant thing. She scheduled an ultrasound just to be certain everything was OK.

Doctor Nell Clausier's grim look was telling. "I'm afraid I can't find the baby."

"What do you mean, 'Can't find the baby?'"

"Well, it actually appears that you may not have been pregnant in the first place. I'm so sorry. I just wish you would have come in a little earlier, so we could have..." Doctor Clausier trailed off, not wanting to make it seem like she put the blame on Joanna. She corrected herself. "I wish I had asked you to come in earlier so we could have saved you the time and heartache. Again, I am so sorry."

Joanna felt simultaneously empty and relieved. She had quickly warmed to the idea of being a new mommy, but this also meant she and Ricky could move their wedding date up, maybe even to the coming spring.

She held back tears and said in a near-whisper, "No, it's OK. It's no one's fault. It just didn't happen is all. It seems like-- wait, then why haven't I had my period for a couple of months?"

Doctor Clausier was relieved at how well Joanna had taken the news. "That's a good question, and I was just about to address that very subject. To be honest, I don't know for certain right now. But I assure you we will find out exactly what is going on. We just need to do some blood work and other tests. We can do that right now if you like, or we can reschedule."

"No, let's do this today. Right now."

"Ok, then I hope you'll excuse me while I see another patient. Will you be ok waiting here for the nurse to come take a blood sample?"

"Oh, yes. Of course. I'm fine."

"Then I will be on my way. I will be back to check in on you when I am done with my next appointment." She softly patted the back of Joanna's hand and rose to leave the room.

--

Nearly nine months after his elaborate marriage proposal, Ricky was still concerned over Joanna's mental state. Since learning she wasn't actually pregnant, she had become withdrawn, almost sullen. She moped around the house in her robe, frequently called in sick to work, and had all but completely passed off all of the wedding planning duties to him. He was utterly clueless about how to proceed. He felt like he didn't want to mess up her perfect day, even though she clearly had given up on caring about much of anything. The happy, perky girl he once know hadn't been around for a long time.

The ongoing tests to find out why she wasn't menstruating were taking their toll on Joanna, as well. The doctors couldn't find anything in her blood and even went as far as to take tissue samples and a spinal tap. She appeared jaundiced, but they couldn't find anything wrong with her liver, either. Running out of options, the doctors sent her blood and tissue samples to a lab for genetic testing. At long last, a test had returned an abnormal result.

"Your DNA appears to have been significantly damaged." Doctor Clausier saw little sense in softening the bad news. "I think this is likely related to the problems with your menstrual cycle, but we can't be sure how exactly that ties in."

Joanna was confused. "What? That doesn't make any sense! How could that have happened?"

"Well, DNA damage in and of itself isn't unusual. Every day we're exposed to environmental circumstances, as well as natural and man made substances that can alter our DNA in almost imperceptible ways. But damage to the extent that you have is almost certainly caused by long term exposure to radiation or hazardous chemicals."

"I don't know what I could have possibly-- unless... No, it couldn't be. The macaroni and cheese?"

Now Doctor Clausier was perplexed. "I'm sorry, macaroni and cheese?"

Extremely embarrassed, Joanna told the full story of Ricky's macaroni and cheese surprise. How they made passionate love for hours in cooling Kraft Dinner and slept in it afterward.

Trying not to show her disgust, the doctor maintained her professional composure as much as she could. "Sweet Jesus, that has to be it. Massive and prolonged exposure to high quantities of rich, creamy sodium tripolyphosphate, succulent nitrates, restorative lycopene, and deliciously zesty enzymes mixed with your fiancee's semen. I'm certain of it."

Joanna was almost elated to understand something, anything about her condition. "Yes, that HAS to be it! It seemed like the enzymes did taste particularly zesty that night, but I thought that was probably just Ricky. Is there anything we can do to reverse this?"

"There is only one way. We get you into a bath of liquefied Turkey Spam immediately. Come, there is little time to waste!" Doctor Clausier jerked Joanna to her feet by the hand, and lead her down the clinic corridor in a full sprint. "Nurse, we have a Code K here. Fill the chamber in Room 5. Quickly now!"

They burst through what seemed like an endless series of double doors, pushing aside surprised patients and orderlies, and finally arrived at Room 5. The 10-foot tall door was made of 2-foot thick steel lined with row after row of thick, steel locking bolts. It closed behind them with a bone-jarring clang, followed by the rumble of the bolts locking into place one by one.

Doctor Clausier, motioned toward a smaller door at the back of the room. A nozzle spraying a shower of what appeared to be pinkish gelatin was visible through the large observation window next to the door. "You have to go in alone, but I will be right here the entire time. Disrobe entirely behind the curtain over there, then put on these goggles and insert these plugs in your ears. Once inside, you'll see an oxygen mask attached to a hose leading to the wall. Put the mask on, and make sure it covers your mouth and nose with a tight seal around the edges. And don't forget to tighten the strap as tight as you possibly can around your head. We don't want you aspirating Turkey Spam."

Without a word, Joanna quickly followed the doctor's orders and entered the chamber. Once the oxygen mask was secured to her face, she gave the doctor the thumbs up and a muffled, "Ok." The mottled pink gelatin was now up to her knees. She was getting nervous. Up to the waist. Her heart pounded in her chest. Up to her chin. "Oh, God. Here we go." She was now completely submerged in a greasy whirlpool of slippery, gelatinous poultry. The goggles did little to keep it out of her eyes, as the motion of the Spam kept pulling them away from her face. Thankfully the breathing mask seemed to be holding tightly.

An eternity passed. Joanna wanted to ask how much longer she had to remain in this quivering entity, but she had no way of speaking to the doctor.

Just then, a muffled speaker crackled and cut out intermittently, "Jo...na. Hang in... Some... not working... trying to figure...out."

That didn't sound good at all. Was it simply not working? Did something go wrong? If it wasn't working, why was she still in here?

Doctor Clausier spoke quietly with a nurse. "I can't believe I forgot to add the key ingredient. This is a nightmare. We need to get her fiancee here immediately. If we don't hurry, she will die of lip and asshole poisoning. Here, he is listed as her emergency contact. Go now!"

Joanna struggled to stay conscious. She felt week, nauseous, and struggled to breathe. Obviously something had gone horribly wrong, and they were afraid to tell her what was going on. She moved to the window and pressed her eyelids against the pane. She opened one eye ever so slightly and could make out the faint form of Dr Clausier speaking with a tall, lean man. It was Ricky! "Ricky, I'm in here!" It was of no use. Her eyes stung horribly, and she was only able to hold them open long enough to see Ricky remove his pants and walk toward the chamber. What was going on out there? Was he coming to rescue her?

Within a couple of minutes, the eddies of pink gelatin seemed to go cloudy. It also felt vastly different. Instead of feeling cool and slimy, it was now giving Joanna an oddly warm tingling sensation. Her breathing was far less labored now. Her nausea then subsided. She felt renewed, full of energy, full of the essence of life itself. A gurgling sound filled the room. She could feel cool air on the crown of her head. The gelatin was draining! Save a greasy, pink slick on the floor, the gelatin was completely gone less than a minute later. The door flew open, and in flew a pantsless Ricky.

Ricky embraced her tightly. "Joanna! I thought I'd lost you, baby. How do you feel?"

She quickly assessed herself. "I feel... better. But something still doesn't feel quite right. I feel like-- not to be gross, but I feel like, well, like I haven't..." Her face reddened, and she lowered her voice. "Like I haven't gone to the bathroom for a week. And--"

Before she could continue, she felt a rumbling in her core. "Ohhh... ooooohhph," she moaned. Without further warning, she felt something thick and warm gushing out of her vagina.

"Oh shit god damn!" Ricky yelped and jumped up onto an exam table to escape the splattering river of bloody, greenish macaroni noodles issuing forth from his beloved's nether regions.

"Ohhhh, I don't feel so good." Joanna went ashen, fell to her knees, and vomited thick, yellowish clumps the size of a muffin.

"It's alright, Joanna," said Doctor Clausier. "It's just the Turkey Spam working to expunge the fromagatoxins and foreign pastas from your system. Don't fight it, just let it happen."

Joanna wasn't about to fight it. In fact, she was going to help it. She pushed. Hard. Like she was giving birth to a small block engine. More rotten macaroni exploded from between her legs.

Ricky surveyed the room from his perch, trying to make sense of it all and trying not to vomit from the overpowering stench. He could see every shape of pasta imaginable covering the floor. A small pile in the corner caught his eye. "I don't remember there being any rigatoni that night." The pile moved, unnaturally so. He was about to point it out to everyone in the room when Joanna cried out in pain.

"Rickeeeeeeeeeeee... oohhhh no!" As she hunched down on all fours, a high pressure spray of partially congealed menstrual blood hosed down the observation window behind her. "Unghhhhhhhhhh! Oh, GOD!" Joanna howled like a dying wolf, vomited once more, rolled over on her side, and passed out cold.

As Ricky and the doctor bent down to check Joanna, a small figure rose from the rigatoni, levitated in midair, and moved toward them. It had a vaguely human form. Yellow droplets fell from its mouth to the cold tile several feet below its neatly crossed legs. Ricky was repulsed by this hideous creature but felt strangely calmed by its presence. Every fiber of his being told him this was a creature of benevolence, of love, a vessel of the risen Christ. The tiny being turned its entire body toward an EKG meter, which flicked to life with a bright green flash. A message appeared on screen, as though it were being typed out letter by letter.

"ALL THESE WORLDS
ARE YOURS EXCEPT
EUROPA
ATTEMPT NO
LANDING THERE
USE THEM TOGETHER
USE THEM IN PEACE"

Doctor Clausier furrowed her brow and cautiously addressed the small, floating fetus creature. "I'm sorry. But I do not understand. What worlds? Which worlds are ours?"

The screen went black and displayed a new message.

"ALL EXCEPT
EUROPA
ATTEMPT NO
LANDING THERE"

Ricky shook his head. "OK, you really have the both of us confused here. Why would we try to land on Europa? We couldn't land there even if we wanted to. We can't even get to Mars yet, much less Jupiter."

The screen went black again.

"WHAT YEAR IS IT?
WHERE ARE WE?"

"It's 2008. We're in a medical clinic about an hour south of Denver," explained Ricky.

The screen went black and stayed that way for several moments before flashing again.

"OH SHIT DAWG
I WAS SUPPOSED
TO WAIT A
COUPLE MORE
YEARS
IS THAT LINDSAY
LOHAN ON THE
FLOOR?"

Ricky stammered for a moment. "No... no... wait, what? No, that's my fiancee Joanna. She was here getting medical treatment."

"DOUBLE SHIT
HEY MY BAD
TELL YOU WHAT
USE EUROPA
ALL YOU WANT
WE PRETTY MUCH
JUST WINTER THERE"

Ricky shrugged. "OK. Thanks, I guess."

"NO BIG
PEACE OUT
FOXY
FLESH
BITCHES
KEEP YOUR
SHIT TIGHT
AND SHIT"

With that, the tiny cheese baby jetted out of the room and out of view, leaving behind a dusty cloud of yellow powder issued from its rectum.

Joanna stirred on the floor and moaned. Ricky rushed to her aid. "Joanna! Are you alright?"

"What happened? Where am I?"

"You're still in the clinic, baby. Everything's gonna be alright. You just had some vaginal backup and a small mac and cheese alien baby thing up your cooch, too."

Joanna groggily shook her head. "OK, Ricky. Whatever. I just want to go home and go to bed."

Doctor Clausier snapped, "Oh no, you don't. We need to get you cleaned off, run a few more tests, and keep you overnight for observation before you go anywhere."

"No, please," said Joanna. "I really want to go home to my own bed."

The doctor sighed. "I suppose, but I want you here for an examination first thing in the morning."

--

The wedding was more beautiful and romantic than Joanna ever could have dreamed possible. The reception had been filled with champagne, dancing, and laughter, but now it was time to head upstairs to the honeymoon suite. She and Ricky, both a little tipsy, stumbled out of the elevator and plodded down to the door at the end of the hallway.

Ricky grinned widely. "Shall we do this the old fashioned way?"

"You mean missionary?"

"No! I mean I'm going to carry you into the room. I know it's not the threshold of our house, but--"

He didn't have to explain. With a shriek of laughter, Joanna jumped into Ricky's arms. After he fumbled with the key card for awhile, he threw the door open and tossed her onto the bed. Memories of the fateful macaroni and cheese wedding proposal and the ensuing nightmare came flooding back for Joanna.

"Ricky?"

"Yeah, hun?"

She scrunched her nose slightly. "I keep forgetting to ask you something about that day at the clinic."

"When you were cured?"

"Yeah. I never asked you why you had your pants off when I came out of the Spam chamber."

Ricky seemed genuinely surprised at this question. "You mean the doctor never told you?"

"No. No, she never said much of anything about what happened in that room."

"Well, it turns out that the doctor initially neglected a key factor in your treatment. It was the combination of imitation cheese, ketchup, and hot dog bits mixed with my semen that altered your DNA. When the Spam wasn't reversing the effect, she realized my man juices were the missing ingredient. Once I wacked off into the Spam intake chute, it was like a magical cure. Apparently my semen has very special healing properties. But it has to be fresh. Straight from the source."

This made complete sense to Joanna. "Of course! Well, thank you for saving my life, my love. Now let's get down to business here! And we better make it quick because I'm starting to get a headache from all of that champagne."

Ricky smirked. "Well, baby," he said smugly, "I think I've got just the cure for that headache. Now lean back, open your mouth, stick out your tongue, and close your eyes."

This week's City Pages "adult" ad section has two competing ads that could have the makings for a very splashy showdown. I suggest putting down a tarp and bringing a slicker.

Dear Jeremy,

Sometimes when I'm at the bar and drunkenly pick up a fugly chick, I don't have a bag to put over her head. Makes it hard to get hard, you know.

-JK

JK, there is a really simple solution to this problem. Don't put a bag on her head. Flip her over and draw a new face on her back.

--

Hey! My boyfriend is Mr Spooge-a-Lot. He cums on my tits, my face, my stomach, my back, my mattress, my headboard, my curtains, my carpet, my lamp shade, and my vanity.

geen

Geen, first off, that isn't a question. Second, tell him he best wipe off his mess tonight or chisel it off in the morning.

--

Got a question for Jeremy On the Fucking? Send it to fucking@afterglide.com

You may know the proper placement of the shrimp fork and coffee spoon in a table setting for a 12 course meal, and you may know that it is impolite to ask someone how much money they make, but do you know how to take a proper dump? Poor dumping manners have cost people their jobs, their friends, and even their spouses. Don't offend the ones you love by taking a dump like a frightened coppersmith. Bring them closer by taking a dump like an emotionally available gerontologist.

Ladies

For a proper ladydump, the fairer sex must be mindful of the clothing they are wearing. Short skirts must be pulled down no farther than mid-calf, and jeans and pants, including sweat pants must be removed prior to sitting down on the commode. Upon removal of the pants, the woman should fold them neatly, then remove her underwear, and use them to bind her ankles together tightly. I will then knock thrice on the restroom door. She should whistle if the coast is clear, and scrape her foot on the floor if someone else is in the restroom. If no one else is in the restroom, I will come in, join her in the stall, and film her peeing with my new high definition video camera. I will leave the camera with the woman, walk down the street for a nice chai tea, and sip at it tentatively while she films herself defecating on a sheet of rice paper. She will page me with a call back number of 911 when she finishes (she will NOT call me, as that is rude, clingy, and weird), and I will send a bicycle courier to retrieve the camera and the soiled rice paper from her. Once I receive the camera, I will roll up the rice paper, slice it up, and serve it to a high school biology class, then will show them the video to make sure they know they just at shit-sushi. Then the lady the lady should put a doily on her thigh or something.

Gentlecocks

For men, a proper dump is more about the utensils at hand. As he sits on the commode, to his immediate right should be the salad plunger. To the right of that should be the main plunger. To the left, in order, should be the soup plunger, the melon plunger, and the fiber strand plunger. In the lap, the man should have a pocket watch in order to mind the time, for a proper gentlecock will never take more than 2 hours to unburden his tract. If the colonic unleavening is in danger of exceeding this time limit, without exception, one must wipe, stand, wash the hands thoroughly with soap and warm water, walk to the news stand, and purchase a copy of Cocks Between Jugs: Gentleman's Edition. The man must admire the eponymous cocks between jugs for no less than 5 minutes, and return to the restroom to complete his digestive duty. Should the toilet become plugged, great care must be take to carefully analyze the contents of the bowl to determine which of the aforementioned toilet plungers should be used (fiber strand plunger for long, stringy leavings, the melon plunger for fruity chunks, the soup plunger for diarrhea, etc).

Transvestites and Transexuals

Unfortunately, they are beholden to both sets of rules at the same time. Tell you what, I'll just bring the magazine with me when I bring my camera to save you a trip.

I recently learned of a portion of the California Vehicle Code, 23103.5, which leaves open the possibility, given the agreement of the prosecution, for a person charged with a DUI to plead to a lesser charge of alcohol-related reckless driving, regardless of whether there was actually reckless driving involved. This charge is known as "Wet and Reckless," or "Wet Reckless."

Let it sink in. Wet and reckless.

"Wet and Reckless in California! The hottest babes party on the beach by day and climb onto our party bus to eat each other out on film by night. All the wet and reckless action you can handle and more! Call now and get our free bonus DVD, Tits, Tits, and More Tits: All Up In Your Face and Partially Up In Your Ass."

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"Dear Playboy Advisor, my boyfriend wants me to reach over and rub his taint while he drops a wet reckless on my pubic mound. First, I'm not sure what a wet reckless is. Second, will I need special shampoo to clean that out of my landing strip?"

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Calleigh Duquesne: "Horatio, I'm glad you got out here so fast. Our vic somehow managed to ride a jet ski down the hotel pool's water slide and crashed full speed into the concrete wall. I'm thinking this is an accident, open and shut."

Horatio Caine: "Tell me... Ms... Duqeusne... if this... was an accident... why... is his ankle handcuffed... to the exhaust?"

Calleigh Duquesne: "You're right. And whoever did it left behind a torn piece of wetsuit and a finger print."

Horatio Caine: "Then it looks like we... are looking for someone who is... wet and reckless."

Roger Daltrey: "YAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Ang from St Paul writes:

What is your favorite color?

Sincerely,
Your fucking fuck buddy

Ang, when it comes to fucking, I don't play racial favorites. True, my girlfriend, who happens to be you, is caucasion, but I don't draw the line at only fucking white chicks. I like African-American snatch, Asian cooter, Hispanic gash, and any other type of panty slit you can think of. In fact, I would still be rod-docking all of these types of women if I was not in a relationship with you... and you hadn't caught me with that group of African-American, Asian, and Hispanic girls when you came home from your business trip. To summarize, I like the poon.

Chelsea from Minneapolis writes:

How did you break the bed? I mean, was it standing, jumping, role playing, a donkey?

Chelsea, it was just straight out, American-style fucking. Where American = cowgirl. Granted the structural stability of the bed had been previously compromised a few months ago in an unrelated incident, but this vigorous episode was the final straw for the poor bed frame. The good news is that Miss Ang has decided to buy a round bed from Ikea. I have not-at-all-jokingly told her that I'm going to build a motorized platform for it that will turn the bed slowly while I bang her drum quickly.

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Today I also wanted to tell a story of a couple of friends who I want to applaud for their honesty. They were running late for a small gathering at the home of some mutual friends. When they arrived they explained that they were late because they had been boning. That is not only an acceptable reason for being late, it is a strongly encouraged reason for being late. Unless you are Ang, and it is me who is waiting for you somewhere. "Sorry, I was late, Jeremy. I was getting plowed like a field of harvested sorghum." HEY!!! Not cool, Ang. Not cool, at all. Next time you show up for the matinée at 4:30 pm sharp.

This week I won't be answering a question because none of you fuckers ever send me your fucking questions to fucking@afterglide.com!!! Instead, I'd like to address a topic of concern to me because it happened to me recently. I'm talking about breaking the bed while fucking. Now if you're thinking, "Oh, Jeremy, you're just writing this blog post with no other purpose than to brag about the fact that you broke the bed while fucking," I say, you are correct. This is proof positive that my cock wields the power of a thousand suns. And I wield my cock recklessly. One time I burned a chick's ovaries out then blasted her through the hot water heater when I came. Another time I used it to melt through a blast door when members of the Trade Federation tried to kill Obi-Wan Kenobi and me on their command vessel. I also use it to kill crickets.

Anyway, start sending me questions, or all of my future posts will be about stuff that I burn with my dick. Not including all the chicks I gave the weeping snatch pustules in the 90s.

An actual reader sent in our first actual question! At least I think it's a question.

What the fuck, fucker? Who the fuck do you think you're fucking with? I will fucking fuck you up. Don't fucking let me see your fucking face again, fuckstick, or I will stick my fucking boot so far up your fucking ass that you'll fucking be shitting fucking shoe leather.

-Max via IM

Max, your question was quite obviously formed with great care and concern, so I went to equally great effortook great care to formulate a response commensurate with your thoughtfulness. I will tell you exactly what the fuck. The fuck is that the whole system is fundamentally flawed. The working man is increasingly struggling to make ends meet. Food prices are going up, fuel prices are going up, and people are losing their homes due to unscrupulous lending practices. That is the motherfucking fuck if there ever was a fuck to be fucked.

As for who I think I'm fucking with, I can tell you precisely. I've been fucking with my girlfriend quite a bit lately. I enjoy it very much, though it sometimes doesn't happen as frequently as I'd like. Sometimes life gets busy, you get home drunk, you have to work early the next day, or you just fall asleep on the couch. Other times, she's working out a bowl of crimson egg drop soup, and it just isn't going to happen. Other than that, a couple prostitute hookers, most of them women, come into the mix. One is a tranny with a "7.5 to 8.2-inch surprise." Well now that you've told me about it, it really isn't a surprise anymore, is it? And why give me a range? You don't know how long your "surprise" is? I don't believe that for a second. You measure it every chance you get, don't you. If you're giving me a range, I'm going to assume it's about 85% of the length of the lower value in the range. So let's just be honest and call it a 6.375-inch surprise. Or a 6.375-inch special guest. Yes, let's call it a special guest.

I would, however, appreciate it very much if we could avoid this culminating into you fucking me up in some manner. Whether it be fucking me up in terms of physically assaulting me or fucking me up one of my bodily orifices, let's just lay down our arms (or in this case, our special guests), and be friends. Non-fucking, non-fighting friends. Bosom buddies, really. And of course that means that we would be friends in Christ.

Now my fucking face -- when have you seen my face fucking? Oh, don't get me wrong. I like to get all down in there and rock a quality waggle from time to time, but I don't know that I would call that fucking. I think we should call it a tender lovemaking face. Or if we want to be technical, an awkward yodeling face. Either way, I can pretty much guarantee you'll never seem my face while it's fucking, making love, or yodeling, but I can't guarantee you won't see it enjoying other activities like conveying incredulity, grinding pulled pork, or appreciating an oak-laden fart.

And let us not forget your final point, the insertion of your fucking boot into my fucking ass. If this fucking boot is a boot you frequently use for said fucking, then I assume that it is pretty crusty with a lot of people's leavings at this point. Or do you sit down for a shoe shine at the airport from time to time? And I can see how you could fuck an ass with a fucking boot, but I must admit that I can't conceive of how a fucking ass would work. I can picture fucking an ass, but I can't picture fucking with an ass. Is this like fucking a big old sasquatch chick in her cavernous lady cave with it, or are you stretching out a normal-sized woman such that she looks like an oversized pencil topper? Fitting the whole ass in there would be an amazing feat, and I think you could get a lot of people to pay to see that on the internet. But not me. I'd prefer to draw it or express it in song, preferably something to the tune of Barry Manilow's "Mandy" or something from the Starship Troopers soundtrack. Remember that scene in that movie that had the big bugs? That was fucking awesome, dude!

Send your fucking questions about fucking to fucking@afterglide.com.

Do you have a question for Jeremy On the Fucking? Send your seriously fucked up sex questions and stories to fucking@afterglide.com. If it's disturbing enough, I may just post it and respond. Or call the cops. Oh, and a story about bangin' one out reverse cowgirl style is not fucked up. That's just common sense.

So a reader that I totally made up sent me the following letter:

Dear JOTF, I dig banging my girlfriend as many times as I possibly can. But she unloads the twice a day limit on me. Fuck's up with that, haas? Anyway, I'm actually writing about when I can't rail her during her period. Hey, I could be tits deep in heavy flow, and I won't complain as long as I'm also shank deep in her mitt. But she's all like, "I don't feel sexy! We'll ruin the sheets! Stop rubbing your dick on my cat!" I tell her I can ignore her period bloat, we can put down a tarp, and that her cat likes it, but bitch don't listen, son!

-I Don't Mind a Red Shaft

First off, IDMARS, your letter seems like something that I pulled out of my own ass. But I'll answer it because it's the smartest thing I've ever read in my entire life. Unfortunately, pal, I don't think you'll likely be getting any during her rag time ditty if she's not game. You can try telling her that her rack looks totally honkable or shaking your dick in her face, but chicks can be stubborn during their periods, so even those tried and true A-game tactics might not be enough. Here are a few things you can try that will not only give you some you time, but might actually convince her that letting you give your bone a burial at the Red Sea isn't the worst thing in the world.

1. Jerk off constantly - At the dinner table, while driving, while mowing the lawn, every chance you can get. You'll get your jollies, and she'll likely be so mortified at your behavior that she'll spread like raspberry jam.

2. Get things done - During times you'd normally be having the relations, check off items on your to-do list (not HER to-do list, YOURS, fool!!!). Finally finish the last few levels on the latest Grand Theft Auto game, build that diorama of the Golden Girls, and while you're at it, take that gigantic dump you've been saving up the last few days.

3. Ignore her entirely - This will drive her nuts with randy desire. Don't talk to her, or even acknowledge her existence. Chicks fucking love this shit. A couple days of this, and you'll be sure to get a lap full of Kool-Aid.

4. Imply that you will touch the kids - Now let me be clear, never ever EVER actually touch your kids inappropriately. If you do, I'll come over there and snatch away your fruit basket quicker than a table saw. But if you leave subtle hints around your wife that you might go that way if your needs aren't soon satisfied, she might rock the panty drop. Or call the cops and divorce you. Who knows. I can't be responsible for things I tell you to do if you actually do them.

Alexis finally got her column on how to give a good blowjob published in vita.mn after a small bit of controversy. Alexis, your columns are almost always quite entertaining, if not informative, and while you do occasionally provide offhand examples of what not to do, I feel that I must supplement your blowjob column with detailed examples of brutally bad oral techniques. This will not only be of use to women who want to avoid poor beejetiquette but will provide some guidelines for women who actually wish to give a piss poor hummer. Perhaps this desire is out of spite, revenge, or even boredom, but this isn't my concern, as long as I'm not the subject of the substandard jock slobber.

The Sugar Scraper

Some women get a tad toothy in their fellatial technique, particularly if those teeth are snaggled in nature. While the occasional enamel-on-rod contact may hit a gentleman's reset button, it normally is something that can be ignored long enough to blast her uvula back into her spine. The sugar scraper, however, is akin to using one's top front teeth to strip mine the caramel and chocolate off of the cookie in a Twix bar. Unfortunately, when a real, live fleshy penis is involved, the analogous caramel and chocolate are replaced with layers of skin and the occasional prominent vein. The man's erection usually wilts instantly, and it is not uncommon for him to bleed to death within minutes.

The Bazooka Joe

Much like chewing absentmindedly on soft bubble gum or onion patch cud, the cock ingester gnaws viciously on the head and shaft, leaving the man's genitalia looking like someone ran a strawberry cheesecake through a wood chipper. If the recipient doesn't bleed to death, he usually shoots himself in the hypothalamus before enduring dozens of reconstructive surgeries and a lifetime of carting around a battle-scarred dick that looks like a frightened pufferfish.

The Serious Blowjob

This was conceived by Coco, who often pantomimes the act while dining in classy lounges and supper clubs. The performer of the serious blowjob has a stern look on her face, sucks on the cock like she is trying to remove the stubborn wrapper from a drinking straw at Arby's, and maintains uncomfortable, glaring eye contact with the recipient at all times, as if to say, "I see you, buddy boy. I know you're up to something, and I swear I will figure out just what that something is." The recipient likely will maintain his erection and ejaculate with some delay, but the entire experience will be quite uncomfortable, as no one likes to get the stink eye, particularly when getting their knob gobbled.

The Chastising Blowjob

Another Coco creation, the chastising blowjob is the natural extension of the serious blowjob. Unlike the serious blowjob, the blower knows exactly what shenanigans the blowee has been up to, and will stare angrily at him while wagging her finger at him. "For shame, dude who's cock I'm sucking! I know it was you who ran over the neighbor kid and drove off without saying anything. I'll continue sucking, but I am very displeased with your actions." The recipient's guilt will make it very difficult for him to maintain his erection, and it may take hours for him to ejaculate, assuming he does not break down in a tearful confession. "I did it! I admit it! Hey, I didn't say stop. Keep going!"

The Trojan Whore

The woman disrobes, gets on her knees, opens her mouth, and leans in as if to suck, but at the last millisecond, headbutts him in the peaches and absconds with his wallet. The man is left writhing in pain and concern over potential identity theft and damage to his credit rating.

Epilogue

Ladies, please keep in mind that using these techniques as a distraction for the sole purpose of engaging in criminal activity is unladylike behavior, unless -- as in the case of The Trojan Whore -- the crime is intended as punishment for the cock-bearing party. Maybe he slept with your roommate or tricked you into climbing into a cargo van for a 6-man gang bang -- frankly I don't care. Just promise me that you will use this information only for the purposes of misandric and selfish gratification.

This video is about a Nerf dart, but it's NSFW for reasons that will be immediately clear.

Viagra is a decade old. My favorite quote from this article:

"But a lot of people look to Viagra for personal happiness, thinking a hard penis can resolve relationship issues," and they end up disappointed, added the doctor and author of the book 'The Viagra Myth.'"

Are you implying that a hard penis can't solve relationship issues, my good doctor? A hard penis can solve any relationship problem you throw at it. Need to spice up the sex life? Whip out a hard penis and smack her on the chin with it. Need to discipline your significant other for spending your rent money on furry boots? Whip out a hard penis and bitch slap her across the face. In fact, the answer to every problem is hard penis.

Problem: A meeting's attendees are rudely talking amongst themselves, paying no attention to your presentation.
Solution: Who needs Robert's Rules of Order? Swing a hard penis at a coffee cup, sending it sailing into a wall. The explosion of shattering porcelain will get their attention in a hurry. Furthermore, emphasize your point by replacing your Powerpoint's bullet points with photos of your hard penis.

Problem: You are the first to arrive on the scene of a horrific car accident.
Solution: If there are open flames, bat them out with your hard penis before they reach the gas tank. If there isn't enough time, quickly rip the roof off of the car with your hard penis, instruct the victims to grab onto your hard penis, and use it to lift them to freedom and safety.

Problem: You're being robbed at gunpoint.
Solution: Stab the perpetrator in the chest with your hard penis. Nothing stops crime faster than a cock-ruptured aorta.

Problem: You're walking with your friend, and he gets robbed at gunpoint.
Solution: Put wood to pavement and pole vault away from the scene with your hard penis. You can call the police for help once you're safely at home and have had a good night of sleep. Be certain to dial the phone with your hard penis.

Problem: You want to serve ice cream, but your only scoop is in the sink with the dirty dishes.
Solution: Use the uncut hood of your hard penis to scoop up the ice cream. Flick the shaft with your thumb to release the ice cream into the bowl. Do it quickly because your cold penis won't be hard much longer.

Problem: You've forgotten your email password.
Solution: Use your hard penis to click the "Forgot your password?" link.

Problem: You have a hard penis.
Solution: What part of "the answer to every problem is a hard penis" do you not understand?